


Nightmares and You

by IdenticallyDifferent



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Panic, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:00:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29023860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdenticallyDifferent/pseuds/IdenticallyDifferent
Summary: Will and Hannibal have a tense relationship post-finale and are living together in a safehouse. Will has reoccurring nightmares about the fall.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Kudos: 15





	Nightmares and You

Pain. Pain everywhere. Every inch of my skin, my bones and organs are on fire. Everything is consumed by fire. Pain; so, so much pain.

Help me, I try to gasp but my throat constricts, it's too dry and it _hurts_.

It's getting harder to breathe. Oh God, why can't I breathe? Why can't I move? What's happening?

I try to remember the last few minutes, seconds, anything. But I can't... there's nothing. Nothing came before now.

A sudden pulsation: one, two, three.

I try to scream and then-

"Will."

It's you. I remember your voice. You're here with me.

I struggle to open my eyes, I need to see you, but I can't, they're so heavy and won't comply.

One, two, three.

I'm sinking.

One, two, three.

Your voice is growing distant. Don't leave me, I beg, please don't leave me.

***

I wake up gasping, fighting for oxygen as though I'm still trapped in the nightmare. My throat is dry and my ears are ringing and I know I've been screaming. I can't help the violent sobs that burst from my body - I'm not in control of my movements. I know I should ride it through, like I do every time, but this time I can't; I can't move, I just lie here until finally - _finally_ \- my breathing returns to normal.

I push myself up and off the bed, aware of my shirt being soaked through with sweat and promptly discard it, screwing it into a damp ball and throwing it into the corner of my bedroom.

Aware that you're sleeping in the adjacent room, I tread lightly down the corridor to the kitchen where I fish out a mug to hungrily gulp down some water. It’s cold and just what I needed to dispel the lingering remnants of my dream.

"Will."

I drop the mug (luckily it doesn't smash) and whip round to see you standing a few feet away from me, casually leaning your hip against the island counter with your gaze fixed on me.

"Dammit, Hannibal!” I shout, and the rapid beating of my heart loud in my ears slowly subsides as I catch my breath. “Is it too much to ask that you don’t sneak up on me like that."

You ignore what I said and ask with a frown, "Does something ail you?”

Of course you would be able to tell something was wrong. Although perhaps I shouldn't be so surprised - I am stood shirtless in the kitchen at god knows what hour and jumping at the mere sound of my name.

"Nothing's wrong."

You wordlessly raise your eyebrows.

I know you aren't going to let me off the hook quite so easily, so, sighing, I say, "I had a bad dream, that's all."

"Another nightmare,” you say contemplatively.

"I'm used to it,” I say and shrug like it’s not a big deal because it isn't, everyone has nightmares, including you. Actually, do you? You always seem well rested so it’s hard to imagine what sort of horrors would dare keep you awake at night.

"I'm sorry that I woke you."

"I'm a light sleeper, I would be concerned if I didn't hear you," you say simply.

"I should go back to sleep." And I should, but I know that's never going to happen. I stand there, a little awkwardly, before walking back to my bedroom, aware of you trailing behind me. I panic for a second thinking you’re about to follow me into my room, but you divert at the last second and head to your door.

"Good night, Will."

"G’night,” I reply.

“Have pleasant dreams."

Yeah right, I think closing my door and falling back onto my bed heavy-limbed. I lay awake for the remainder of the night with my head behaving like a storm as fragments of my dream flash through my mind like lightning.

Eventually light finds its way under the curtains signalling that it’s an acceptable time to get up and start the day, much to my relief.

Usually when I slouch into the kitchen still groggy from a sleepless night you’re in the process of preparing breakfast, but you aren't here now, so I take the opportunity to make breakfast for myself. Once I’ve located all the necessary ingredients and equipment, I chop up fruit: apple, banana, and watermelon, and fry bacon (it was packaged so I hope that’s what it is).

By the time you come striding in, a curious expression on your face, I’m in the middle of making scrambled eggs.

I can't think of anything to say and opt for stating the obvious, "I'm making breakfast."

"I can see that. Is there a particular reason why?"

"You cook breakfast, lunch and dinner; I thought I'd give you the day off."

"That’s very considerate, but I assure you I do not mind. In fact, I consider cooking for you the highlight of my day."

How am I supposed to respond to that? Couldn't you've just left it at a simple 'thank you, Will'.

"Grab the cutlery, would you?" is all I respond with.

You arrange the table whilst I bring the dishes over and we settle down opposite each other, eating wordlessly. The bacon and eggs obviously aren't to your standard of cooking but at least they're edible and I have to say not too bad considering I haven't made anything in over the four months we've been holed up in this safehouse. Once finished, we clear the dishes and you insist on washing up.

I lean against the counter, mirroring you from last night. It's only a matter of time before you start questioning me on why I was awake, and I can't help feeling uneasy at the thought of it. Maybe I should leave, get out whilst I still can, lock myself in my bedroom where you can't get me. You've never been in my room (not that I know of) and for that I am grateful. It's nice to have some ounce of privacy, a space to call my own, where you have no influence. But hiding - what would that achieve? I'd have to come out eventually and when I do, you'll be waiting with your questions. So here I am: waiting.

You scrub the last dish and place it on the drying rack before turning to face me. Oh, here it comes. And surely enough –

"How long have these nightmares plagued you?"

A small snigger slides out of my mouth before I can stop it. That's your starting question, really? Before coming here, before even seeing you as a psychiatrist I had nightmares. Ever since I can remember I’ve woken up in a cold sweat, screaming and gasping as though I really had been running for my life like I was doing in the dream. However, what I run from constantly changes. It used to be monsters, typical childhood nightmares but as I grew older the monster changed from bogeyman to Man. Of course, I don't tell you this – what good would it do?

"You're going to have to be more specific,” I say.

You've adopted your typical psychiatrist stance - passive face and encouraging yet intense gaze. I wonder briefly if you practice this look in front of the mirror. You probably do.

"Am I correct in assuming last night’s nightmare is different from previous ones?"

Now I don't know what to say. Although what I do know - can guarantee - is that if I lie, you will surely know. Therefore, I chose to be vague with my answer.

"I've had it for a while now, it’s reoccurring." You don't need to know the particulars. "It's nothing I haven't handled before. I'm dealing with it.”

"And how might I ask, are you 'dealing with it'?"

"You know," I say with a shrug. "Turn over and go back to sleep. It's just a dream." And it is just that. We aren't on the beach, I haven't thrown us off the cliff, we aren't fighting for our lives. That's all in the past, we survived. We always survive.

A crease forms between your eyebrows. You don’t like it when I withhold information from you. However, you don’t push the subject further and I can’t help wondering why.

Ever so slowly, as though not to spook me, you amble across the kitchen and come to a stop a few paces away from me.

"If you permit me, I would like to help,” you say, and it would be so easy to let myself fall for the sincerity coating your words. Easy to forget our blood soaked past when you look at me like that, like you actually care for my well-being.

"Are you proposing therapy, Dr. Lecter?"

“I am,” you confirm with a tilt of your head.

I had considered it, truth be told. If you took away your manipulations, you were a good psychiatrist. I enjoyed our talks, and if I were to be completely and utterly honest, I missed them.

Unlike our previous therapy sessions, this time would be different. There would be no ulterior motives. Well, you might have a few, but now I know what to look out for. I know how to play this game with you. And even if things turn sour, at least it would have been a bit of fun to starve off the mundanity of life.

I don’t reply straight away, instead I hold your gaze. You must see something in the set of my jaw or curve of my lips because your eyes seem to burn brighter, aflame with unbridled delight.

“Yes,” I say, and you unleash your smile. You look genuinely pleased, like I’ve just given you an invaluable gift. And perhaps I have, if you figuratively think of my brain as a present waiting to be unwrapped. “Let’s do it.”

It’s not like I have anything left to lose.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in 2017 when I was experimenting with different tenses / narrative styles, and I thought why not edit and upload it now? Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it <3
> 
> Kudos make my day!!


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